Hollywood and Garages
by WrittenByBlood
Summary: Teen Wolf AU: In which Stiles is a famous actor forced to return to his hometown for a while by his father, who worries that the celebrity status is getting to his son's head. While in Beacon Hills, Stiles takes to driving around in his old jeep - which promptly breaks down. The owner of the local garage is anything but willing to to play favorites just because Stiles is famous.
1. Homecoming

So I saw a post on Tumblr ( post/57764195509/dylanships-prompt-by-the-amazing- briecheesie) and fell in love with the idea. So I wrote what went through my mind. Well, I'm writing it.

In this AU :

The Hale Fire was unsuccessful. Kate Argent was killed that night by Talia Hale for the attempted Murder of the Hale Pack. Gerard was killed a few months later when he attempted to avenge his daughter by murdering Talia Hale. As all of this was against the Code, Chris Argent chose not to intervene, deciding the matter done, and the Werewolves in the right.

Stiles attended Beacon Hills High with Scott, Isaac, Danny, Jackson, Allison, Lydia, Erica, Boyd and Cora Hale. He was best friends with Scott but hasn't spoken to any of them since he left the day after graduation. He returned at the insistence of his father.

* * *

The first thing Stiles did when he graduated from the illustrious Beacon Hills High School was to punch Jackson Whittemore square across the jaw. The second thing he did was to climb into his Jeep and drive for seven hours and fifty-three minutes to Los Angeles. Stiles had never returned to Beacon Hills before today.

Stiles Stilinski was twenty-one soon to be twenty-two, on April eighth. He was Hollywood's brightest rising star. He had a star on Hollywood's Walk of Fame. He was the youngest nominee for an Academy Award, and if things went well, he would be the youngest to win one next year. He had clause-specific contracts that no one argued on. And every single movie, TV show and piece of art he was in featured him with an apple product. He should _**not**_ have to drag his sorry carcass back home – as his father, Sheriff John Stilinski had so eloquently put it – like a teenager with a curfew when his father called him, damn it.

And yet, with all these achievements, and more, which he didn't want to mention, because he had some humility – a house worth an estimated three million, another one in Hawaii so he could visit Danny's home, a McLaren F1, to name a few – here he was, being driven back to Beacon Hills like a chaperoned and rebuked teenager.  
The only way this could get more humiliating, and humorous – if he were inclined to look at it that way – would be if he were being driven back in a squad car. Stiles snorted at the thought, and then waved the driver off at his questioning look.

"How much longer, Steven?" Stiles asked the driver, whose name was actually Chris, but Stiles had jumped at the chance for his driver to be Captain America, or Thor, so he alternated the two names every time he needed to speak to the driver.

"Just two more hours' sir," Thor answered, glancing in the rear view mirror. Stiles wore a pair of large, dark shades. Jeans, a red t-shirt and a striped hoodie over it. He was sunken back into the leather of the car in an altogether strange mixture of depression, resignation and mortification. "We just left Sacramento half an hour ago."

Stiles groaned, the sound of a man condemned for a crime he didn't commit. Stiles could see why his father wanted him to come home. Well, he'd half listened to his old man's complaints on the other end of the line while opening his new iPhone 6. He was justified, the phone was third in line to be released next year, and he already had his baby. The condition was, of course, no one could see it. But he was the first person to get to use any new tech the company came up with. It was the reason for his in-clause contract that stated the company's latest releases had to be included with his character costume.

So he'd been a little distracted when his father had asked – read, demanded – he come home for a few weeks to reassess his outlook on life. Stiles snorted, he was perfectly happy with the outlook he currently had, thank you very much. But his father had threatened, bribed, and ultimately, guilted him into agreeing to a few short weeks at home. He had fought valiantly, of course. But in the end, he'd resigned mournfully, and with the air of a martyr, had watched Emily – trustful, reliable, what would he do without her Emily – to pack his bags for the long journey home.

He'd wanted to fly, he'd intended on flying. But flying was just so much, _**faster**_, than driving. And Stiles, like the petulant teenager he became when speaking to his father, would come and visit him like the obedient son, oh yes, but he would take his damn sweet time doing it.

In hindsight, that wasn't his brightest moment. How much he'd had to spend on gas and food on the way notwithstanding, his legs were paining. And he just didn't do well with sitting still for extended periods of time. Which was anything longer than five minutes. Oh, he could react the same scene fine hundred times to get it perfect and not say a word, as long as he _**moved**_. So far, he'd been in the car for over five hours. He was not happy.

Stiles woke up when Steven called to him that they were thirty minutes out of town.

"Jesus, Thor," Stiles muttered, half asleep but still functioning enough to use the wrong name for his driver, "Wake me up when we're there." Stiles tried to fall back asleep, but Emily – who could be as sharp as Lydia, Danny and Isaac together, had been – nudged him sharply with her heel that could rival Miranda Priestley's, and told him to look presentable.

Stiles complied purely out of the primal instinct of self-preservation. This turned out to be a rather good instinct, because as it turned out, a police cruiser was flickering for them to pull over. Stiles decided to let Steven deal with it.

Steven did not, as it turns out, deal with it very well.

"Sir are you the owner of this vehicle?" The police officer asked Steven.

"Uhm, does he look like the owner of this vehicle," Stiles peered at the name tag, "Officer James? The owner would be me." Stiles leaned out of the car window in the backseat.

"Then you're also the owner of the four month expired registration on this car, sir?" The officer told Stiles. "Sir, would you please climb out of the vehicle."

"Whoa there," Stiles said, but complied with the officer, living with the Sheriff his whole life had ingrained a few things in him he hadn't been able to shake. "I wouldn't exactly call it 'expired', I mean, as far as these things go, four months is simply, just passed its sell by date, right?"

Emily had rolled her eyes, Thor had looked positively appalled.

And after nearly four years of perpetually avoiding Beacon Hills and its residents, Stiles found himself being escorted into Beacon Hills and straight to Beacon County Sheriff's Office in the back of his father's old cruiser to be questioned by John Stilinski, the Sheriff of Beacon Hills.

* * *

All constructive criticism is welcomed and repaid with warm, perfectly baked cookies, apple crumble, chocolate cake or a combination of all three. You can also find me on Tumblr here:


	2. So Named

The road home was a difficult one. Mostly because it was done in a police cruiser. And mostly because the person driving the police cruiser was Sheriff Stilinski, also known as, occasionally, his father. On those occasions, Stiles wouldn't be the happiest, or most innocent – he acknowledged – of residents of Beacon Hills.

In those occasions, which had been so numerous from sixteen to eighteen, he would have done something quite questionable, that others might have called stupid, or, in the case of his father and his co-workers – and the rest of the national police force - , illegal. He may or may not have been doing them despite the explicit orders not to. He may or may not have had no reason to do so but his curiosity. Dead body in the woods search with Scott, in point. But – and Stiles would like to point this out right now, please – nothing bad had happened, and the killer had been caught because of them. His father was never pleased in these occasions.

This was one of those occasions.

"What, were you thinking?!" Sheriff Stilinski asked his son, in that same tired, resigned voice he'd used when Stiles had been sixteen. Stiles marvelled that his father hadn't changed at all.

Oh he'd been interrogated at the police station, but the real interrogation had begun when they'd _**left**_ the police station.

"To be fair," Stiles so helpfully pointed out, still sulking in the passenger seat of the cruiser. "No one can actually be legally arrested for driving with an unregistered vehicle-"

"Arguing with an officer," Sheriff Stilinski cut in.

"And I was going to renew it," Stiles continued without pause.

"And _**casually**_ insinuating the waste of national resources on the _**incapability**_ of the national police force – a police force I happen to be a part of –" John pushed.

"But I'm _**never**_ driving," Stiles argued. "So I don't _**see**_ the expired date staring at me every minute-"

"And then of _**course**_," John emphasised the words, "You had to assault the police officer, after resisting arrest!"

"It was a touch!" Stiles started, sitting up. "I barely even touched him."

"Stiles," John rebuked, softly but harshly.

"Look, dad," Stiles began, turning slightly in his seat. "I swear, I was going to renew it. It's just that Emily couldn't do it because they needed my signature, and I'm always busy, and really, if Steven had just reminded me about the expired registration on the car he was driving -"

"This," John said, gripping the wheel a little tighter, as they pulled into the driveway home, "Is why I asked you to come back. You need to learn to take responsibility for your actions. If you get arrested," John turned the car off, and turned to Stiles. "You got arrested. You don't buy your way out of it, you don't behave like a rich little bastard, you god damn accept it, Stiles, and you move on." John and Stiles climbed out the cruiser, both slamming the door shut. "And you don't get others to do your work for you. You take care of your own shit, and you grow up!"

John left a gaping Stiles staring after him, the kid was quiet when he'd shouted at him, so John would chalk this up to a win, and drop the issue. He was turning more and more into the Stiles he recognized, and less the arrogant little bastard he'd seen on TV and every glossy magazine, every minute they got closer to home.

John wouldn't deny it, Stiles always got himself into trouble.

But what he'd counted on, before his son had up and left, was that whenever Stiles got himself into trouble – and that was often, usually with a few casualties on the side, mostly Scott, but sometimes the Lahey kid – he would own up to it, and take it like a man. He would argue his way out of it, as best he could – which was pretty _**damn**_ good – but he'd never behave like the petulant child he had become so recently. Today was the last time for that, and the first time Stiles would keep quiet.

Because Sheriff Stilinski wouldn't deny it, Stiles always got himself into trouble.

* * *

Stiles wasn't happy, per say, to be back in Beacon Hills. He wasn't happy that he was going to be here for at least eight weeks. He wasn't happy that his acting schedule actually _allowed_ that. He was _**furious**_ that Emily and Thor were _**not**_ staying in Beacon Hills too. And they were taking his car. _**His**_ car.

"Well," Emily tapped her foot impatiently, "How do you expect us to get back? Hmm? We drove you here."

"But," Stiles protested. "There are planes, and trains, and buses, all very reliable public modes of transportation. In fact, I'm sure my dad would even organise a police escort for you back home!" Stiles had argued. All to no avail.

"There's no need for you to have that car here, really." Stiles had narrowed his eyes at Emily. The little . . . She wanted his car. "I'll make sure it goes in for the service on time." She comforted him. "And I'll start it everyday so the engine doesn't pack up. Wouldn't want that to happen now would we?"

"And you'll drive it through Sunset Boulevard to make sure it stays familiar with the area," Stiles dripped sarcastically.

"Of course I will, sweetheart," Emily assured him, just as Steve called out that the car was ready to make the almost eight hour journey back to Los Angeles.

Stiles hadn't responded to neither him nor Emily, as she kissed his cheek goodbye, and climbed into the car. He didn't spare Thor a glance as he offered his hand, before dropping it slowly and walking away.

They were abandoning him. As far as Stiles was concerned, they needed no greeting. Abandonments meant just leaving.

Stiles watched the car leave, and once he was sure they were out of sight, he waved lightly, at his _**car**_, before heading back into his old home.

* * *

Sheriff Stilinski was at the stove when Stiles walked inside. Well, stomped. But he was a grown man. He wouldn't use words like that to describe his actions. Or mope. Even if that was exactly what he was doing. He pulled out his phone and played around on the screen for a few minutes, before tossing it beside him on the couch.

"Why don't you call your old friends," The Sheriff suggested to his son, sparing him a pitiful glance. "Supper's not going to be done for another hour. I'm sure Scott would love to come over for dinner. Catch up."

Stiles gave his father a scathing look. "No," He bit out, petulantly, but bit his tongue from a further retort when he heard his father sigh. His regret wasn't enough to make him take back his words and follow up on his father's suggestion though.

Stiles had left for a reason. And he had been tired, so, so tired, of being the little human errand boy in a pack that he would never belong to. Scott had been bitten by a rogue Alpha that night they'd gone looking for the dead body of Joan Rider, a girl in their class, and had begun a chain of events that ended with Stiles on a non-stop drive to Los Angeles the day he graduated. Trying to get as far as possible from Beacon Hills without leaving the State his mother had died in, or his father had tried to raise him in.

But how could he tell all of this to his father? The one that didn't even believe Werewolves existed. The one that wasn't aware that the safety of Beacon Hills was split three ways, divided between himself, the Argents and the damn Hales, and the rest of their bitten pups. Scott, first. Isaac, too. And Erica, and Boyd, then Jackson. Allison and her father guarded from above with guns and crossbows. And then even Lydia, finally, Lydia, who he'd always counted on to just be herself, ignoring him, making him love her, decided to join in with the clan of werewolves. Of course, Lydia had developed a talent for warning others about incoming death, and nightmarish visions that saved the Hale Pack more than once, so he supposed she had use. Not like him.

Like Hell. He was not calling Scott.

But Danny. Stiles mused, his anger softened, when he remembered the Hawaiian boy he visited whenever he was in his home country, Danny had been different. Danny hadn't _**changed**_. Even when he had.

Stiles pulled his phone from next to him, and scrolled through his contacts, looking for Danny. Danny would be here this time of year. Finding the contact, Stiles pushed the call button. Danny answered after two rings, a worried voice greeting him.

"Stiles?" Danny asked, concerned.

"Hey Danny," Stiles greeted. "Old buddy, old pal you. Guess where I am?"

"Stiles," Danny started, half groaning, "If you're in a gay bar surrounded by drag queens and you need me to get you out, again, I'm seven hours and fifty three minutes away. Call one of your Hollywood hot shots to get you. Or Emily. Isn't that her job?"

"That was one time!" Stiles spluttered.

But that one time – and Stiles had _**known**_ he'd made the right choice to keep Danny as a friend in that exact moment – Danny had made that seven hour and fifty three minute journey when Stiles had called him frantic, having lost his phone and unable to remember any number besides Danny's as a panic attack had set in. It had been Danny that had found him, in the same club, huddled in a booth and driven him home.

"Right," Danny said, "And let's keep it like that, alright?"

"Anyway," Stiles rolled his eyes, "I'm in Beacon Hills."

"Where?" Stiles swore he could hear the single raised eyebrow and the halting of every movement over the phone. Oh right, Danny had known most of why he left.

"My father," Stiles raised his voice just marginally, he knew the Sheriff could already hear him. "Feels I need to reconnect with my roots. Something about being a spoiled bastard and that he couldn't allow his only son to turn into one, because the _**shame**_ on the family name." Stiles dropped his voice to normal level. "So I'm here, for eight god-damn weeks. And Emily took my car. Which," Stiles paled as he remembered, "Had my iPad and my new iPhone in it, _**screw**_ my life," Stiles groaned, sinking in his seat. "What am I going to do here."

"You can hear yourself, right?" Danny asked. "Maybe spend time with the father you haven't visited in three years, Stiles."

Stiles huffed on the end of the line. Well, trust Danny not to deal with anyone's bullshit.

"You coming over or what?" Stiles grumbled.

"I'm babysitting Hayden and Aiden," Danny said, his twin brothers that were now all of four years. Stiles grinned from ear to ear. They were the absolute cutest things he knew to exist.

"Hey dad," Stiles called, getting up and walking to the kitchen. "Can Danny bring Hayden and Aiden over for dinner?" Stiles leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, watching his father.

"Please," John said, smiling as he reached into the freezer to pull out one more piece of steak.

"They good with steak?" Stiles asked Danny, turning back to the living room.

"Add cupcakes and you have a deal," Danny replied.

Stiles narrowed his eyes, "You didn't even ask them," He grumbled, but promised cupcakes none the less. Danny knew how much Stiles loved the twins, with their dark hair and darker eyes and love for everything ocean and sea and water. Cupcakes was not only their favourite treat but Danny's too. "This is blackmail," Stiles added on for good measure.

"No, Blackmail is when I threaten you with something that could potentially harm you, this is not blackmail," Danny replied. "This is extortion." And he hung up.

* * *

Five minutes later, the doorbell rang, and as Stiles was currently having a war with an electric beater that may just have been the very _**first**_ electric beater ever invented, his father opened the door and let Danny in.

"You're hopeless," Danny greeted Stiles, taking the beater from him, and the thing suddenly decided it liked Danny and wanted to work in his hands. Everyone liked Danny. Even ancient, evil beaters.

"I'm bloody brilliant," Stiles retorted. "That thing is cursed."

"Stiles!" Stiles turned at the sound of his name called from two identical boys who helpfully wore their names on necklaces. And who not so helpfully would occasionally switch those necklaces. Danny was the only one that could tell them apart.

"Aiden, Hayden," Stiles greeted the twins, engulfing them in one hug.

He'd seen them last two months ago in Hawaii, when they'd gone home to celebrate their fourth birthday on the shores. Which they'd done for every birthday before that. Stiles hadn't known what to give them, until Danny had told them that in Hawaiian culture, to give, was simply all it was needed. Stiles had thanked the man for his very informative Yoda-like advice, and gotten the boys two brand new surf boards with their names monogrammed on.

Which they also helpfully switched at times.

Their mother had just been _**thrilled**_ that Stiles had given the twins a way to confuse everyone now at unmeasurable depths in the oceans. As far as Stiles was concerned, she asked for it when she decided to do a Nick Parker and Elizabeth James, and naming her twins for Annie and Hallie.

"Did you bring us anything?" The one who, for today, wore the Hayden necklace, asked. Any other person they wouldn't have asked this, Stiles took pride in that they asked him. He took an almost manical amount of joy at the horror and mortification this caused Danny and their mother.

"What do you think?" Stiles asked them, before heading towards his bedroom, where Steve had kindly placed his luggage before deserting him, and taking his baby. Stiles called for the twins to follow.

Stiles had planned for exactly three days for this trip, for no reason except because he didn't want to come back to Beacon Hills. So he'd spent the three days buying gifts for Danny, the twins, his father, and himself. Lots and lots of gifts for himself. As consolation. As congratulatory for his self-sacrifice. And he intended to reward himself very handsomely when he returned home after eight weeks. Many, many times.

Stiles opened the door to his old bedroom, which, shockingly – not – was exactly as he'd left it. He strode over to one of his seven suitcases, and opened the largest one. He pulled out two boxes, both the same shade, with a name on each, and handed one to each twin wearing the matching name necklace.

"You get to decide who you're going to be today, and whose gifts you get to get," Stiles told them, "But I chose the gifts with names in mind, and no trading is allowed, so if you're happy with your brother getting your dream, then . . ." He shrugged, and let the sentence trail off.

The twins stared up at him with wide eyes, and then stared at each other. They quickly changed boxes. Stiles did an internal victory dance. He'd outsmarted two four year olds for today. He quickly scanned the two of them, and noticed a small blemish on Hayden's shorts. He reminded himself Hayden had the tear on his shorts, and that would be how he was going to mess with Danny for the night. Danny who was so smug that only he could tell his twin brother's apart. Let's see, Mahealani, let's see.

"Come on," Stiles said, after the twins had opened their identical gifts, and offered plentiful thanks. "Lets go and make sure Danny didn't burn the cupcakes."

Danny turned his attention away from the oven and watched as Stiles gracefully descended – read, fell down – the stairs, with a twin on each arm.

"Did you burn them?" Hayden asked.

"Stiles said you'd burn them," Aiden said.

"We didn't believe him," Hayden answered loyally.

"But he said he could hear the cupcakes calling for help." Aiden interjected.

"That would be the first time Stiles heard anything then," The Sheriff told the two boys.

"Funny," Stiles said. "You're a very funny man, Sheriff John Stilinski. You should consider stand up comedy. I could set up a meeting for you."

The Sheriff rolled his eyes, and pulled the last of the five steaks out of the pan.

Stiles saw Danny turn to the boys and couldn't resist flaunting his new found powers.

"Hayden," Stiles said, handing one of the plates to the boys wearing the Aiden necklace but with the cut on his shorts. "Please help the old man set the table."

Stiles glanced up to see Danny narrow his eyes at him. "How?!" He demanded. The boys would never have told. And Stiles wasn't guessing, there was no doubt in his sure heartbeat.

"I have my ways," Stiles answered, with a dramatic turn around to carry two plates to the table in the dining room.

Stiles sat at the table, and watched as Danny helped Hayden into a seat before taking his own seat. John and Aiden followed them into the living room and sat down too. Everything else was already on the table. Danny looked at Hayden sitting on his right once more, before he turned to Aiden.

"Aiden," Danny said, "I forgot the forks next to the cupcakes, please get them."

Aiden nodded before scrambling off his chair and heading into the kitchen. Danny waited for a second, and then turned to Hayden.

"Help your brother, please," Danny asked sweetly, "And bring the salt as well."

Stiles rolled his eyes at how at home Danny was here. If he was honest with himself, Danny was probably over here, and with the twins, more often than he was. The twins returned a full minute later, neither of them carrying anything. It was then Stile noticed all forks were on their designated plates, and the salt shaker was sitting innocently in the middle of the table, right next to the pepper. Stiles glanced at the twins, and saw how they were pulling their shirts into place. Almost as if they'd . . .

"No!" Stiles screamed, as Danny, Aiden, Hayden and the Sheriff, having caught on just as Hayden left the room, broke out into laughter. "No! I had my super power for all of five seconds! This isn't fair, do over!" Stiles pointed at the one twin that wore the Hayden necklace, but didn't have a cut on his pants. "You are Aiden!" But his heartbeat gave away the doubt.

"His necklace says Hayden, son," John said soberly, having just controlled his laughter.

"I don't care!" Stiles said, pointing in accusation.

"I'm Aiden, Stiles!" The one wearing the Aiden name said.

"No one has any names, now! And I'm not Stiles!" Stiles said, stabbing his steak with a fork, as everyone began eating, the occasional laughter filling the air.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do," Danny asked in a hushed tone, "If you accidentally run into anyone else in town?"

Supper had been over fifteen minutes ago, and Stiles and Danny had offered to do the dishes, as the Sheriff watched Looney Tunes re-runs with the twins in the living room. The boys telling the Sheriff to stop laughing at references they couldn't understand.

Stiles placed the glasses in the cupboard above him. He turned back to Danny slowly.

"I was thinking I could just stay in my room until my dad got tired of me and kicked me out. Avoidance, the tried and tested solution to every problem." He answered, but at Danny's look, he answered more seriously. "I'll deal, Danny boy." Stiles shrugged, looking impossibly tired. "I'll always deal." Even if he had no idea how the Hell he was going to do it. When he'd run from them almost four years ago.

"And that," Danny answered softly, "Was why you had to run the first time."


	3. Unexpected Welcomes

Notes : First, thank you, thank you to everyone for reading my story, and especially thank you to the reviews, they always inspire me to write more! I hope to have another chapter (or two) up in this week, still, but for now, have fun!

* * *

Danny and the boys don't stay long. They're gone almost immediately after the cupcakes have been finished. The boys on a sugar high that Stiles almost feels guilty about leaving Danny with. But then they're hugging him and thanking him for the presents, and Danny is still smirking ever so slightly, and the guilt vanishes. The boys deserve to be happy sometimes, and if

Danny was caused some misfortune by it, well, some sacrifices, then.

Stiles is waving as they drive off, and goes inside only when the car has disappeared from view. He sinks into the couch, his phone in easy reach. He spares it a glance. Back home, he'd have tweeted something, re-tweeted someone else's something, done a little recon on his latest script, and, contrary to what everyone believed, would actually read through his schedule for the next day. But like he remembered, this place drained him.

Even his home.

Stiles banged his head against the back of the coach and groaned. He wouldn't stay cooped up here, but he didn't really like the idea of going out and running into anyone. Standing, he shook his head. Problem for another day. Stiles headed for his room, passing the kitchen, he grabbed a cupcake that wasn't as good as Starbucks' and nowhere near as good as his mom's had been, but the sugar felt good, if nothing else.

Stiles wandered into his own room, his father had gone to bed as soon as Danny left. Stiles shut his door and leaned against it, as his memories assaulted him. And for the first time in years, Stiles let them. Leaning against the door, he sank down to the floor, as he remembered every reason he'd had for leaving. He had never, not once, thought of this place in four years. And now here he was, back where he'd started from.

Stiles groaned, and pushed himself up off the floor. He crossed to his window, and shut it firmly, latching it.

He remembered, so perfectly, how Scott would climb in through that window. Werewolf powers. Not that the lack of werewolf powers had stopped him from climbing in through Scott's bedroom on numerous occasions, but still. And then, after a while - when the Hale Pack grew, so much, that it wasn't only Hale's anymore - Isaac, and then Erica – who Stiles had, initially, liked – and then Boyd, also began climbed through his bedroom window.

Jackson – and thank god for small miracles – never did.

Still, Stiles felt the need to lock it now. It was symbolic, in a way. You can't come in. It said. No one can pass.  
Stiles, for all of his twenty two years and insanely large knowledge of the supernatural world, felt ridiculously safe with the locked window. Because it kept the nightmares out. The things he couldn't fight. Like friends that left you behind. Allies that excluded you. Family that abandoned.

Stiles collapsed on his bed, willing tears not to fall. He should never have come back. But how was he supposed to tell his father, that his reasons, for leaving, were that he was Human – not an ally. That he was Not Pack – never mind best friend. How could he tell his father that the scars he routinely spotted like tattoos – lasting almost as long and hurting far worse – were earned protecting werewolves from hunters and hunters from werewolves? Protecting two families that would have left him to die.

And Scott. Well, he was a werewolf, too, in the end of it.

* * *

When Stiles wakes up its past ten on a Monday. Which means the Sheriff is at work. Stiles stumbles through the house wearing shorts, a white t-shirt and severe bed hair. To be accosted by an excited puppy in the form of Scott.

"Stiles!" Scott calls, nearly crushing his sleep-ridden human friend. "You're back, man!" Scott pulls back for all of two seconds before he's crushing Stiles again. "You wanna tell me why I had to know my best friend was back in town from Jackson Whitmore?!"

Oh, Danny was dying sometime soon, in some creative way.

"I just got in yesterday afternoon, Scott." Stiles tries, pushing Scott off him and wandering into the kitchen. He'd need energy to take on Danny. Not a lot, but he couldn't be starving. Stiles glanced at the kitchen knives. That could work. He took out a bowl for breakfast, contemplating how much blood loss Danny would have that would be from a knife wound to the chest.

"Yeah," Scott says again. "Long enough for you to have Danny over for supper but not give me a two minute call?"

Stiles glances at the cooking torch he'd sometimes used. That could work too.

"I figured you might be busy," Stiles says offhandedly. "Sunday's is still pack, right?" And it is both painful and humiliating, and hurting in all kinds of ways, that with everything, he still remembers this.

"Yeah," Scott ventures, a little tentative. Scott had never known the full extent of just, everything, but he'd known some. Stiles tended to be vocal. "But come on man, I haven't seen you in like, three years, I would've come!"

"It's been four, Scott," Stiles adds. Then glances at the cupboard above the dishwasher. That's still where his dad keeps the rat poison, right? "Four years since I've been back, and for all of the ten minutes that you've seen me, you haven't once asked me how I've been, but you've been able to bitch about how I called Danny, who, by the way," Stiles pauses, "You know what? Never mind." Stiles steadies himself, takes a deep breath.

"How've you been, Scott?" Stiles slips on a mask. And he wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. In the public, in the shows, and the movies and the scenes, every other actor he knows has to put on a mask. Watch what he says, watch what he does. Stiles wears his at home. With his family. With his friends.

"I've been good," Scott ventures, a little unsure. He hadn't thought this out, clearly. But then, Scott never did that, the whole thinking thing. He looks embarrassed and sheepish, and just a little hurt. But that little has Stiles feeling guilty. Scott hadn't asked for this, either. This bite that had led to them losing each other.

"And everyone else?" Stiles asks, because he ran, but he still cares. "And the Pack?"

And it's fucking painful how Scott brightens at the damn word. Because Stiles lost his mother and got jack shit back. But Scott, he lost his pathetic excuse of a dad, and got ten times better. And that meant leaving Stiles behind. But it hurt the most, because whenever he said 'Pack', Scott meant family. And Stiles wasn't Pack.

"They missed you," And that brings Stiles up short, and almost has him laughing out loud. "I mean, not Talia, so much, or Peter, or Jackson," Stiles rolls his eyes, and almost smiles, because this was Scott's normal method of cheering someone up.

"But Isaac," Scott latches onto a name. "Yeah, Isaac, he missed you loads. Even cried a few times. Erica was just as bad. Said we should go and get you." Scott struggles with a memory, and Stiles munches on a bowl of Coco Pops, watching. "I remember, like, three days after you were gone, Erica wanted to drive down and just come and get you herself. But Boyd wouldn't let her."  
Stiles snorted, and nearly dies, having forgotten that he was having milk. Scott thumps him painfully, intending to be helpful, on the back. Stiles waves him off, if only out of self-preservation, and tells him to continue his story.

"Not that that would stop Erica," Scott says, after a while when Stiles has stopped dying. "But, then Talia, you remember, Hale, my, the – er, Alpha," Scott says, when Stiles nods he goes on. "She gave an edict; no one was allowed to go after you. She told us all to just trust that you wouldn't expose us, I mean, we all already did, but she ordered us to leave you alone." Scoot winces in memory. "It was, difficult, hearing her voice like that. But yeah, so we all just, obeyed."

"How's Allison?" Stiles asked, noticing Scott hadn't mentioned her yet, which was usually the first thing he spoke about. "Any Lydia?"

Scott looks almost embarrassed. "I, er, I might have asked her to marry me." Scott says, and he cannot possibly look more proud of this.

Stiles would kill him. If he could. He wonders how Scott is actually still alive. How has Chris Argent allowed his daughter to marry a werewolf? How has Talia Hale allowed her beta to marry a Hunter? Maybe it was a suicide pact on Scott and Allison's part?

You know, the two star crossed lovers thing? Maybe they found it too mainstream to just be together when they were meant to be killing each other, and decided they wanted to die together. Taking forever to a new level.

"So," Stiles ventures. "Did Chris Argent burn your place to the ground? Were you kicked out of the Hale place? Is that why you're here now?" Stiles's eyes opened as he considered this. "Oh god, are there a group of Hunters and Werewolves teaming up to attack my house right now because you're here?!"

"S'not funny, Stiles." Scott complained, half whining.

"I beg to differ," Stiles interjected seriously, "I think that's very funny. I am a very funny person. Two MTV awards for two separate comedies I starred in and partly directed proves so." Stiles pauses. "I was joking. I _**was**_ joking, right? They aren't actually on their way here to kill you, are they?"

"No!" Scott protests. "Mr Argent gave me his blessing." At Stiles's incredulous look, he frowned. "Well, I mean, he didn't shoot me with wolfsbane bullets. And maybe that was cause Allison emptied all the bullets into her own safe – she's so smart – that her dad doesn't know the combination to. But it still counts!"

"Uh huh," Stiles nodded, in the way you calmly leave the insane person alone when they try to reassure you that the Voices were telling them that Fire doesn't really burn, it's just misunderstood. "So he didn't shoot you. That's good. And Talia Hale?"

"She gave Allison her blessing, too." Scott said proudly.

"And by that you mean she didn't rip out Allison's throat." Stiles said, and Scott took offence and growled, but at Stiles's unimpressed raised eyebrow, he simply nodded.

"The wedding's next month," Scott said, "I was gonna send you an invite as soon as they were printed, but something keeps coming up at the printers." Scott frowns. "Mr Argent says they should be on track again soon."

"Uh huh," Stiles nods, not at all feeling that much inclined to help Scott out on this one. "Right, well, this has been fun," Stiles says, wiping his hands off, and placing the bowl in the sink. "But, I need to shower, get dressed, do nothing for six weeks," Stiles says, moving Scott to the door. "So, if you don't mind, I'd love to get started on that."

"Hey!" Scott says. And Stiles groans. Because that is Scott getting an idea. Which is nowhere near as awesome as him getting an idea, and a whole lot more dangerous. "You wanna hang out later?" Scott offers. "Like, for lunch, or something. I could give Isaac a call."

And that is blackmail. Emotional blackmail. Because the hardest person for Stiles to leave behind – after his father, which didn't really count because he flew his father up to stay with him for a weekend once a month since he left – was Isaac. And he would actually kill to see him again.

Isaac was someone that somehow screamed he needed to be taken care of. And Stiles, with watching his dad's diet, and Scott's _everything_, was more than willing to look after another pup. And that was exactly what Isaac had become to him. Stiles thinks, had he been a werewolf – not that he thinks about that, about how much it would mean to _**belong**_, if he was just bitten – that that wouldn't have been only a euphemism.

Erica had seen how much attention Stiles would willingly give Isaac, when the latter asked for it, and she quickly jumped at the chance. Stiles found himself with three werewolves that now routinely slept in his bed in a puppy pile whenever they felt like it. His room was almost never his. And he had a strong feeling that Talia Hale approved of it only because Stiles wasn't a werewolf. Had he been, she might have ripped his throat out for trying to steal her pack. But Isaac, and then Erica, had never made it more abundantly clear, to them, Stiles was Pack.

But with everything he and Scott had been through – and Scott was _**still**_ his best friend, because damn it, Stiles knew how to keep promises, especially ones made at six years old on the playground – and how much he felt for Erica that had suffered so much because of her own body and mind, and how much he loved the two of them. Leaving Isaac left a hole in Stiles so great it would never fill.

Stiles closes his eyes, and that's his undoing. Because all he sees are Isaac's blue-grey eyes and his perfect blonde curls.

"Where?" Stiles asks, no longer shoving Scott out the door. Scott whoops in joy, and hugs Stiles.

"It'll be just like before," Scott says enthusiastically. And Stiles wants to yell and shout and howl in a way that makes him almost werewolf, but he grits his teeth and doesn't. Because he grew up, damn it. He did. "How about two in the afternoon, at the Diner on the corner of Main and Maple?"

Stiles nods, not fully trusting his voice.

"Great!" Scott's best trait is that he's oblivious. It was also what made Stiles leave. Well, one of the things. "We'll see you at two in the afternoon."

* * *

Isaac doesn't wait for two in the afternoon.

Stiles heads to his room, after locking the door behind Scott, and takes a shower. He's done in ten minutes, and when he comes out, he finds Isaac standing in his room. He vaguely wonders if his dad had given them all keys, because he knows for a fact his window is still closed.

Stiles just stares at Isaac for a moment, and he can't describe Isaac's eyes. The pain, the betrayal, the hurt, and – oh god – the sheer gratitude that Stiles is really here. Isaac starts towards him instinctively, but draws back again. And it hurt, oh, it hurt, to see Isaac hesitate like that with him. Stiles opens his arms slightly, asking. And Isaac is holding onto him before his next heartbeat. Burying his face into the crook of Stiles's neck.

And it isn't like Scott's hug, bone crushing and joyful. It's light, and desperate and hurtful in a way that clenches Stiles's heart.

"You, you left, me," Isaac says, the first words he says to Stiles. And Stiles can feel Isaac's tears on his neck, he can – without werewolf senses – hear Isaac's heart pounding. Or maybe that's his own.

"I'm sorry," Stiles whispers. It feels like he's shouted. And he cards his hands through Isaac's hair, soothing his pup. "I'm so sorry, baby,"

And Stiles thinks his father might think this was weird. But he could never, even if he thought of his past self – the one before Scott was turned – he thought of that past self a lot – the one that only knew about humans, and human nature – walking in at this very moment, even _**that**_ Stiles would see nothing wrong with this picture. Isaac was his pup. That was all there was to it, all there ever had been.

Stiles wonders how he had left Isaac behind.

"Shhh, baby," He soothes him, feeling Isaac as frightened as he'd been that day he'd curled under the bed. "You're safe, I'm here."

"You left," Isaac accuses again, his face still buried in the crook of Stiles's neck. "And your window was closed," Isaac doesn't move his head, he's wrapped completely around Stiles now, trying to get as close as he can, as much of his scent as he can. "Why?"

Stiles doesn't know which question Isaac is demanding the reason to. And it doesn't matter, because Stiles can't answer either.

So he just apologizes, again and again. And buries his face in Isaac's curls.

* * *

When Stiles and Isaac make it to the Diner later, at two in the afternoon, Scott is waiting there in the farthest booth at the very back. The diner had been built in a very odd kind of way. And some of the booths were behind actual walls. It made a lot of space for private booths, and very little spaces to sit.

Scott had managed to steal one of the ones in the back. The one no one could see from any direction in the Diner.

Isaac presses closer to Stiles's side, and Stiles, having just been nearly mauled by the blonde werewolf for over an hour solid, trying to convince his jilted and scared pup that he was really there, takes no note of it.

And this, Isaac's already tense nerves, and the oddly built Diner, make him unprepared for what he finds waiting in the booth with Scott.

Erica is both worse, and better, than Isaac. Better – or worse, depending on how you looked – because she didn't cry. The red rimmed eyes said something else about before she got to the diner, though. And she was worse – or better – because she demanded answers.

When she was sober enough to ask the questions.

"Hey, Erica," Stiles says, sliding into the booth, next to her, because he knew what he was getting into when he came back to Beacon Hills. He knew how much this would hurt him. But damn, knowing didn't make it hurt any less.

Isaac slides in immediately after Stiles, sitting on his left, pressed right against him. Erica controls herself for all of three seconds, but when Stiles smiles at her, she's lost.

She doesn't cry. But oh, how Erica shook, as she curled herself into Stiles's side. He could hear her wolf whining, moaning, he knew she held back her howl.

Stiles had run often with Scott, and Isaac, Erica and Boyd, and, on one occasion, Jackson and Danny, despite Alpha Talia Hale's instructions not to. And he knew how they behaved, how every single wolf behaved, when they let themselves loose. Fully changed into werewolves, they would run, and howl, and tackle each other to the ground. Not one of them – not even Jackson – had hurt Stiles while changed.

And because he knew them when they were unchained, he knew what they were like when they held themselves back. Stiles sees Scott's eyes change, and Isaac's wrapped an arm around Stiles, feeling Erica's distress. Stiles curves himself around Erica, rubbing his hands all over her, trying to soothe her. It takes the better part of half an hour, before finally the shaking stops, and all eyes are normal coloured again.

Neither Erica nor Isaac let go of Stiles the entire time at the Diner.

They talk, some. Mostly its Stiles asking questions, and Scott answers. Isaac puts in a few words, and Erica manages nods and shakes of the head. Given all things considered, Stiles is insanely proud of them.  
Stiles learns a lot. The Argents and the Hales now have a truce. Which also protects the Argents from other werewolves that are aligned with the Hales. And the Hales are protected from other Hunters that are aligned with the Argents. Which, as it turns out, are a lot.

Because while Gerard and Kate were insane and widely regarded as such, Chris Argent, was not. And Allison's very definitely inherited skill with weapons has also made a little dent in the Hunter's notice. And given the size of the Hale Pack now, every Hunter family would rather just have a truce, than attempt a fight.

The Hale House is now home to every one of the pack, save Scott – who lives with his mother, for now, he says proudly – and Jackson and Danny, who share a place closer to town. Which is also temporary, because Danny and Ethan are looking for a place, and Jackson is looking for a ring.

"Well," Scott hesitates, "He keeps leaving books open around Lydia, hoping she'll stare at one long enough for him to know that's the one that will make her say 'yes' to him."

Stiles manages a snort as his only answer, and feels Erica smile into his shirt. It's the best he's gotten out of her the entire time.

* * *

Stiles pays the bill later, because Scott has a wedding and a house to save for, and Erica and Isaac are his pups and also, Second on Forbes' List of Hollywood's Highest-Paid Actors, yeah, him, and then they all leave. And Stiles should have guessed there would be a balance to them not arguing about him forking the bill. Because they nearly murder each other about who's driving with Stiles back.

Until Stiles say he's not dropping anyone off at the Hales. Then Isaac and Erica _**both**_ scramble into the jeep, and yell for Scott to tell Talia they're spending the night at Stiles's.

Scott looks like he very much just wants to scramble into the Jeep as well. But he's brought his Mom's car. And abandoning it – like he very much wants to – will mean certain death.

He begrudgingly accepts defeat and climbs into his own car, promising to be over tonight, with movies and ice-cream.  
Isaac and Erica argued for the front seat, before Stiles gave it to a very smug looking Erica. Isaac compromised by snarling at her – teeth and all – and draping himself over Stiles from the back seat.

Stiles is grateful about not having to deal with this for the past four years, and when he says so, he instantly regrets it. Erica looks like she's been hit, and Isaac starts to pull away. Stiles pulls over and spends another fifteen minutes soothing them. And he realises they're not the sixteen year olds they once were, and he feels worse because that's the last time they remember him being anything remotely close to them.

As soon as they reach home, Erica and Isaac take claim on the couch, on either side of Stiles. And, fear subsided and grief managed, they begin telling Stiles about everything he's missed. Because apparently Scott can't tell a story properly unless it's about Allison. Because then he becomes J.K. Rowling, Steven Spielberg, Tim Burton and Stephen King all rolled into one.  
The comparison makes Stiles laugh, and Isaac practically preens at the pride and compliments directed his way.

Two hours later, Erica's in the middle of an elaborate tale involving Jackson, and his now newfound ability to shift back to the Kanima at will – something that's come in handy for Talia and the pack when other werewolves think of attacking them, hint; they don't – and she's using an awful lot of hand gestures and movements. She's completely absorbed, so much so that when the doorbell rings, she losses balance and falls off the couch.

Isaac laughs and spreads further over Stiles, taking most of her space.

"What'd you ring the doorbell for?" Erica huffs at Scott when he comes through the doorway a few moments later.

"Cause it's polite," Scott says, confused. He's staring at Stiles, who's now lying on his back on the coach, Isaac is pressed against the back of the coach and Stiles's right side, and half lying on top of him, and Erica is sitting in a very awkward and painful position on the floor.

Erica huffs and pushes Isaac's arm out of the way, and climbs back in her spot, nearly on top of Stiles on his left. Scott shrugs, and moves to sit on the floor, he lays his head on the coach, touching Stiles's, just letting his scent wash over his best friend.  
But that's all he attempts, because for all of his obliviousness, Scott knows Stiles had reasons for fleeing Beacon Hills all those years ago. And he knows he had a good part of it. Scott also knows that all of Stiles's happiness and warmth that's radiating out of his best friend right now, that's all Isaac's, and some Erica's and only one portion of it is his. And it hurts him, just a little, but he feels, rather than knows, that Stiles is allowed to, right now. And that maybe Scott earned this lesser rank.

Before his depression gets too much, and Scott knows he'd lucked out by getting Stiles as a best friend, when he feels Stiles ruffles his hair lightly, and drape his arm over Scott's neck. Scott gives Stiles's arm a little lick, tentatively, apologetically, and smiles when Stiles doesn't pull away.

Scott had sent Cora a text, letting them know that Stiles was back and where Erica, Isaac and he would be for the rest of the night. Cora texted back to let them know they got the message, and asks if she can come over tomorrow.

"Yeah," Stiles says, when Scott asks him. "But tomorrow."

"What's for supper?" Erica asks, about twenty minutes later, still on the couch.

"Pizza?" Isaac asks, and Stiles thinks that he shouldn't look that adorable for an almost twenty-two year old.

"Sure," Stiles says anyway, because yeah, he's not gonna say no to them – never has to Isaac – for the rest of his life. "Let me just get up,"

"No!" Erica shrieks, patting Stiles back down, "I'll order it." She gets Stiles's phone off the coffee table, and orders six pizzas.

"For who is all that food?!" Stiles demands. Because he knew they ate a lot, but never this much.

"We're older now," Isaac tells Stiles's shoulder.

"You don't act any older." Stiles jabs him back, and Isaac starts laughing at the poking in his ribs.

"Two for each of the werewolves," Erica says, sitting back on Stiles's side, "And you can have a piece from each of ours. Two from mine." She offers magnanimously.

* * *

"Did you miss us?" Isaac asks later, lying on Stiles's bed, staring at the ceiling. Stiles pauses midway to pulling his sleep shirt on. Stiles gets his clothing over his head, and crawls in next to Isaac. He hears the 'me' that Isaac doesn't say aloud. When Stiles doesn't answer immediately, Isaac continues. "Not every day, I mean," He says hastily, "Just so, sometimes, you know, once in a while. Maybe on the full moons, if you saw them, I mean, you probably didn't, and you wouldn't need to -"

Stiles pulls Isaac against his chest, quieting him. "Every day, baby," Stiles tells him. "Every single day, I'd think of you," He stresses the word 'you', because Isaac's making those sounds when he pushes down sobs, again, and he can feel his t-shirt getting wet. "And Erica, so much, and the others too,"

"But you never came back," Isaac answers. "You never called, not once. Four years, not once,"

"Doesn't mean I didn't grill my dad every weekend he was by me about you," Stiles tells him, running soothing circles on Isaac's back. "Or ask Danny every piece of information he had on you," Danny had had a lot. And Stiles thought he would purposefully find out about the pack just for Stiles's sake. And always something about Isaac. Stiles was too grateful to be angry, or embarrassed.

That first week had been the easiest and the worst. Easy, because his hatred, his need to get away, was still so strong. And worse, because Danny called every day, about Isaac, about his pup breaking down, sleeping nearly twenty hours a day, unable to do anything coherently without Talia's edict. And Erica, thinning the trees and controlling the deer population out of anger like it was the reason she lived.

"Did you really?" Erica asks, coming out of Stiles's bathroom, wearing his nightclothes, having heard everything. She's got silent tears on her face, too, and she climbs in behind Stiles, hiding the tears in his back. Stiles let her. Erica was strong, and she liked everyone to know she was. She didn't like showing her weaknesses at all.

"Every day," Stiles assured her and Isaac, just holding onto them trying to quiet the whimpers.

When Scott reached Stiles's room, after cleaning up down stairs, he found Isaac and Erica curled around Stiles, both more asleep than he'd seen them in years.

"Don't leave again," Scott asks – almost begs – the still awake Stiles, having heard everything from downstairs. "Just please," He asked, climbing in behind Erica, draping his arm over all three of them, as he fell asleep, "Please,".

Stiles hadn't answered.


End file.
